


And the Place you Need to Reach

by Mouse9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Active Shooter, F/M, Violence, illusions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 08:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16446254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mouse9/pseuds/Mouse9
Summary: The companion piece to ukthxbye's piece All You Have is Your FireSame story, in Sherlock's POV.





	And the Place you Need to Reach

**Author's Note:**

> A special thank you to Ukthxbye for letting me play with this story. And basically telling me "This is the story she wants to read but doesn't want to write."
> 
> I hope I do it justice.

“Sherlock.”  John’s voice is full of dread and for one moment he is transported to the pool once more, hearing John say his name as he opened a coat to show the bomb glinting in under the lights, strapped to his chest and he had that moment of heart-stopping panic and fear. 

The urge to suddenly check John, to feel for a non-existent bomb was strong when he snapped his head to his best friend.

John was pale, his eyes hollow, staring back at him.  His own phone was up, the scene facing Sherlock, the bold red slash of the BBC logo on the bottom of the screen and the familiar image of a hospital, the same hospital they were heading towards in the background.  In black letters, too stark and final for the small phone seemingly screamed at him from the tiny screen.

 

**BBC Alert:  St. Bartholomew’s Hospital is on lockdown active shooter**

 

**_Molly_ ** **.**

 

The name was shouted in his head, as from a phantom voice from the bowels of his mind palace, screaming at him to move to go to find her, save her.  

 

His feet were moving before his mind realized he needed to and for once John was beside him, the pair of them almost running the last block into the chaos, silent and grim.  

 

The number of vans, cars, and constables on the scene when they arrived wasn’t nearly as comforting as it should’ve been and John slowed, his gaze finding Greg in the midst of it, one hand holding a walkie, the other pointing places as he barked orders to the constables around moving as if they were soldiers.  

 

Sherlock didn’t halt in his running, heading directly towards the front entrance of Bart’s, his body on automatic, his mind only shouting one directive: Save Molly Hooper.

 

“Oi!  Grab him!”  Greg shouted and then there were three pairs of hand on him.  He struggled, threw punches, kicked out, his voice going horse with screaming at them to let him go, he needed to get in there, needed to save…

 

“Sherlock!  Sherlock!” Greg was in front of him, hand on his chin.  “We’ve trained men in there combing the whole hospital, we’ll get him.”

 

“I have to go in,” he shouted back, still fighting the hands holding him.  “I have to save her...Greg…” Pretenses forgotten for the moment. Greg’s face softened.  

 

“I promise you.  We’ll get him before he hurts anyone.  But you cannot go in there.”

 

A nod and the hands let him go.  All hands save one, John’s on his arm.     
  


Ignoring him, Sherlock pulls his phone, texting frantically

**Please advise your location- SH**

 

**Molly, please respond if you can.- SH**

  
  


There’s no answer, she not answering, but he refuses to give up.  He’ll text until his battery dies if he has to. He can’t go in and get her but he can do this, be there for her until this person is found.

 

He begins to text again and suddenly a response pops up onto his screen.  Then another. 

 

**I am okay- MH**

 

**In Morgue- MH**

 

His knees go weak with relief.  John’s hand tightens on his arm as if lending his strength.

He texts back, reading the messages even as his fingers fly over the keys. 

 

**….**

 

**I was near St. Barts. I have arrived at the scene. They do not have the shooter yet or know if it is more than one. Please advise anything you hear-SH**

 

**I am safe-MH**

  
  


“There’s two of them,”  John says suddenly, reading but not reading the messages.  “Greg says there’s two shooters in there.” He turns to tell Greg that Molly is safe and in the Morgue.  Sherlock’s only focus is the mobile.

 

**Molly, there are two-SH**

 

**Please stay hidden...please-SH**

 

As long as she keeps responding, she’s safe and if she’s safe then that means it’s only a matter of time before she’ll be out here where he can see her, confirm with his own hands that she is unharmed.

 

**They won’t let me near but I will find you-SH**

 

She has to know that he wants to go to her, to rescue her, that he needs to save her.

 

**I promise-SH**

 

He can’t rest until he sees her.

 

“Got one!” Greg shouts to them, John relays the information.  Sherlock begins to type, to let her know it’s almost over. 

 

**….**

 

Those four dots almost stop his heart. 

 

**They r close txt when gone.-MH**

 

He must have made a noise **,** John looks at the phone and then turns to Greg.  

  
“The basement, the shooter is in the basement.”

 

Greg relays the information to the team inside, but Sherlock can only stare at those black words on his screen. 

**….**

 

**….**

 

He focuses on the screen as if willing her to finish, to tell him she can hear the SAR team coming down the stairs, coming to do what he wasn't allowed to.

 

His fingers began to type and then her message popped up onto his screen. 

His breath caught in his throat, blood running cold.  

 

He blinks, once, twice, his mind refusing to understand the message she sent.  

 

**If something happens knnow that I love you-MH**

 

That wasn’t a goodbye.  Dammit, he wouldn't allow it to be a goodbye.  She was coming out of there. 

 

He…

 

He couldn’t be without her.  

 

She made him a better person. She was his rock, his stability, his port in the storm. Molly had challenged him, made him think, even more so than John. Without her, he was less a man and more the machine everyone supposed him to be. 

 

Who the hell was he without her?  That was a question he never wanted to discover the answer to. He feared he wouldn’t like it.

 

His attention was solely on the phone as if it were a lifeline that he could will her to safety through it alone.  

 

**Then I beg you don’t let anything happen to you-SH**

 

Nothing.

 

He is ice, body rigid and frozen in its place, gaze not leaving the phone, not even the floating dots indicating a message being typed are his companions.

 

He barely hears the shouts, barely sees the movement of the officers outside, the blue rush towards the door as the all clear is sounded.  

 

Greg looks at Sherlock, then at John who is beside him, supporting him.  The two men share a look as Greg heads to the communications truck to get a bearing on the officers including the call of “officer down” that came over the walkie.

 

It was only the two of them.  Two lone solitary figures in a sea of moving people and camera s behind yellow lines.

 

“She’s okay,”  John says softly.  “She’s okay.”

 

Sherlock’s grip on the phone is firm, holding it so that even the smallest of vibrations the phone made will resonate through his skin. 

 

People began rushing out of the front doors, and his eyes lift, scanning desperately each person who exited.  

 

He stares, his eyes growing red and dry from the lack of blinking. 

 

The door opens once more and a lone figure steps out, wobbling slightly, eyes squinting against the sunlight.  She is blood covered, her hands and lab coat coated in red but to him, she is the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.  

 

The phone goes into his pocket and he’s moving, sole thought to reach her, convince himself that she is safe, that the blood on her isn’t hers in any way.  If she were hurt, surely they would’ve kept her there, not let her leave? 

 

Her head turns and he’s upon her.

 

“Sher-”  he hears her voice and he swallows hard, hands out grabbing her and gathering her to him, his heart pounding frantically even with her weight in his arms, even with the feel of her face burying into his chest, her hands holding onto him.  

 

She was safe. 

She was safe.  

 

Sherlock pulled her back, his hands raising to her face, eyes scanning her body, relief flooding through him, confirming the fact that the blood wasn’t hers.

 

“You didn’t text me back,” he whispers, not bothering to blink away the wetness in his eyes.  His hands stroke her cheeks, her face, her neck, careless of the blood, only wanting to feel her, alive and secure, in his arms.  

 

There was a look in her eyes, shock, confusion. She looks away and then back to him. 

.

“I am a doctor I had to help first, Sherlock,” 

 

She has to know, they were so close to never being said. He holds her gaze, serious, focused.

 

“I...I didn’t know...I was afraid I lost you...I,”

 

_ So many days not lived, so many things unsaid.  You could have lost this, do you want to lose any more? _

 

The thought terrifies him.

 

He swallows hard, and then his lips lift, eyes searching.  

 

_ She has to know.  _

 

His lips are on hers, a chaste kiss, he doesn’t want to push, but his relief is so palpable that she has to know and his tormented mind can only think of this way to tell her.  If he speaks, he’ll muck it up.

 

Warm hands are around his neck, his arms wrap around her waist, lifting her off of her feet, closer to him, mouths open, deepening the kiss.

 

_ She knows _ .  

 

The noise, the sirens, the crowd, the shouts and clicks of camera interrupt their bubble and the kiss is over, she is placed back on her feet but he is loathed to let her go just yet.  

 

_ He has to tell her. _

 

A kiss long pressed against her forehead, before he pulls away, staring into her eyes. 

 

“I love you, my Molly,”  he whispers, her skin soft against his palm.  

She smiles, eyes bright as he smiles as she stares back up at him.  

 

“I love you too, Sherlock.”

 

No more days not lived.  

 


End file.
